Roisver's
by The Omniscient Bookseller
Summary: Gah. I've done the unthinkable. It's a modern-day newsies fic. Semi-interactive (PC inside).


Not mine, not mine, not mine. You all know the drill.

Note: Well, I gave in to temptation and did the unthinkable- wrote a modern day newsies fic. Bad me. Bad, bad, bad me.

~*~

Prologue: Arrival

__

September 8, 1989

Francis gulped down his Happy Meal™ with all the enthusiasm of a hungry eight-year-old. He was seated at a small corner table near the door, watching warily as the bustle of the city passed by. Every time the electronic chime announced a new customer, his head jerked up and he slouched a little lower on the bench. When he was about halfway through his burger, the door banged open to reveal exactly who he was avoiding. His blue uniform was sweaty, his hat in his hand. He scanned the food choices while absently reaching for his wallet. Francis took the red bandana off his head and replaced it quickly with his old cowboy hat, pulling it down far over his eyes. He grabbed the rest of his meal and left the restaurant as nonchalantly as he could. 

When he was safely a few blocks away, he settled on a bench at a bus station, tied the bandana loosely around his neck, and dug into his food again. He'd only just finished the fries when another blue uniform loomed in front of him.

"Hey, kid, what's your name?" 

"Jack," lied Francis smoothly. He'd never seen this cop before; playing it safe was the best way to go. He held out his last fry. The man chuckled.

"No thanks, I just ate. Why don't you come with me for a second?" Inwardly wincing, he shrugged, stuffed the fry in his mouth, and stood. The cop guided him down towards the corner. There. That alley. He'd make a break for it there. Suddenly, a heavy arm was thrown around his shoulders and he looked up into an all-too-familiar face.

"So, Francis, where are your parents?" 

The handcuffs clinked softly as they closed. 

__

April 24, 1997

Samuel stared thoughtfully out the window. Spring was coming in. Exuberant life overflowed in all directions from the perfect boundaries and patterns that someone had so meticulously set up. The trees were still bare, but the small rectangular lawn was flushed in green. A soft breeze stirred the chimes dangling from the latticework. A soft answering chord from the neighboring house blended perfectly with the light bird song that had only recently been restored to the world, creating a kind of harmony found nowhere outside of new spring mornings.

A chord of a very different tambour filled the air behind him, and he turned slightly. The Terremi's son, Nathan, was half sitting-half lying on the old gray couch, holding an acoustic guitar. The woven green-blue strap had fallen off one side and lay draped over his legs to the floor. The melody he was inventing was sad and soft. Sam was always amazed at how he could blend his music, even while giving each note its own sweet tone. 

Turning back to the window, he wondered absently if Nathan had even realized he was there. Probably not. The snow was almost gone, now. What remained of it was mostly small piles of dirty slush, not at all like the pristine whiteness of winter.

__

White. First snowfall of winter. Sudden contrast. Shouting against the quiet, panic against the calm. Hungry screaming _orange flames against the pure white. Screaming, screaming…_

A patrol car hummed up the street and stopped in front of the house that had been his for eight weeks. Sam turned and padded softly up the stairs to his borrowed room, half-listening to the rise and fall of voices from below. He stood with his back to the door, looking at the bare, clean room for the last time. He would miss it. Another few minutes were all he allotted himself for thought before he lifted his surprisingly light, nondescript suitcase and returned to the ground floor, walking out of a second life. 

~*~

The inside of the car was a cold grayish color, like rain in November. Sam glanced at the glaring green numbers of the clock; they informed him that they'd been driving for a little over half an hour. The classical flute concerto flowing from the speakers near his feet swelled in a flourishing crescendo, a terrible mockery of the harmony of spring that was passing outside his Plexiglas and steel confinement. 

The car swung off the main road and into a long lane leading up to an old stone building surrounded by imposing fencing. A black sign with tan lettering informed him that he was entering "Roisver's Institute for Unfortunate Children". 

"Hey, Jake," came the policeman's voice from the front seat, "Sorry about your family and all."

Correcting his name wasn't important enough for him to say anything.

In fact, Samuel Evanson hadn't spoken a single word in exactly four months and eighteen days. 

__

August 28, 1998

David stared into his glass, more froth than milk, as if it could tell him the meaning of life. He took a sip- warm foam. Les had probably shaken it again. He'd stopped paying attention to the conversation a while ago. These family moments weren't really his thing. His mind tended to wander anyway, and he was prone to let it. His thoughts were probably more interesting than whatever everyone else was talking about.

Pulling himself slowly to his feet, he made his way towards the kitchen, pausing for a few seconds in front of the whirring fan. The milk went down the drain, the glass into the sink. He stared after it lethargically. It really was much to hot for these clothes, but his parents insisted that he try them on. Might as well get used to it, he thought. His half smile held mostly mockery. After all, he was going to have to wear them for what felt like the rest of his life. 

He tried to roll up the stiff black pants for the hundredth time, to no avail. Maybe they were spiting him on purpose. That thought brought another half smile. Blasted inanimate objects really had it in for him. He turned on the tap and splashed water over his face and neck, making the tan shirt turn a sort of muddy color and cling to him. He scowled at it. It really was an ugly thing, a button-down, collared T-shirt with two vertical black stripes that looked as if they had been put in by accident or as some bored designer's idea of a joke. The letters RIUC were emblazoned on the pocket.

His parents had pointedly never told him what the acronym stood for, but it only took him a few minutes on the computer to figure it out. Roisver's Institute for Unfortunate Children. Was that what he was? An "unfortunate child"? He didn't believe a word of what his parents said about it being a wonderfully superior school system. The bottom line was that he and his brother were being sent off to a boarding school that was practically an orphanage because they didn't have enough money to keep living normally. 

Pulling at the restricting collar of his uniform, David stormed upstairs. Unfortunate child. Huh. He'd show them "unfortunate child".

~*~

Anyway.

After writing this, I realized that I have absolutely no idea where it's going. So I figured, why not let you all tell me what you want? After all, you're the ones reading it. So here is what I call a PC- a plot call. This story will be based only on plots that you guys give me. If no one has any ideas, then it will stay as only a prologue forever. So please, please, _please_ review and give me ideas. I don't care how bad they are, or how un-plot-like. 

Heh.

Un-plot-like.

*is amused*

Okay, this is getting random. Time to go. 


End file.
